


In Session

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mortal, Family Drama, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Marriage, Therapy, booker is bi it's a fact, don't look for realism in this flight of fancy, immortal husbands who can't hack mortal marriage to save thier lives, oversharing in therapy is the best trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: Mr. & Mrs. SmithAU. Nicky and Joe meet with their couples’ therapist for the first time.(Insp.)
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/James Copley, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 152





	1. Session One

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve got writer’s block on all my current WIPs, so why not return to a silly lil thing that’s been sitting in my drafts for months? Based on [this post](https://motivationalmind95.tumblr.com/post/624983022896316416/someone-talk-to-me-about-an-old-guard-mr-and-mrs) from motivationalmind95 on tumblr. I took it and ran and I hope they don't mind. :) Thanks to harrynightingales for the encouragement!

Sometimes Nicky thought about killing his husband. He didn’t do it very frequently—he wasn’t the type to harbor blood-drenched fantasies—but more as a matter of course, whenever it was required. Marriage was infuriating sometimes, more so than usual lately, and often the quickest way his stressed mind could think to decompress was to simply pick up a gun and start shooting.

But of course that was impossible right now, trapped as they were in the little waiting room. Nicky never managed to have any of his guns in reach whenever Joe really pissed him off, and he supposed they should both be grateful for that.

Still. Nicky’s hands itched to snap his neck.

Instead, he settled for taking in a deep breath, counting to five, and letting it out as slowly as he possibly could. It amazed him how he could have endless patience when looking down the scope of a sniper rifle, but he couldn’t manage five minutes alone in a room with his own husband.

“I need you to stop.”

Nicky tried to keep his voice as level as possible, but Joe didn’t seem to hear. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He just kept on pacing, causing the wood floors beneath him to creak with every shift of his weight. And as if he hadn’t already made his displeasure clear during the drive over, Joe had taken to sighing loudly every time he got to the far wall and had to turn around. Nicky barely resisted the urge to stick his foot out and trip him as he passed by.

He raised his voice loud enough that it couldn’t be ignored. “ _Joe_.”

“What?”

“You’re giving me a headache. I need you to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop _that_. Stop pacing, stop sighing, stop—stop thinking so loudly!”

Joe folded his arms, his wandering feet finally coming to a stop. “How in the hell can a person _think_ loudly?”

“I don’t know, but you manage it. I can practically hear you. You’re yelling _This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid_ over and over again inside your head. It’s deafening.”

“Well, this _is_ stupid.”

“We agreed to go in with open minds.”

“No, you _told me_ to go in with an open mind, or else. And I’m trying to follow orders here, sir, I really am, but it’s a little hard when this _asshole_ has kept us waiting for fifteen minutes. What becomes of those fifteen minutes, huh?" He threw up his hands. "Are we gonna have to pay for them? Is this part of the therapy, he locks us in a room together and watches how we sweat?”

“We’re not locked in,” Nicky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He almost said _The door’s over there, you can leave whenever you want_ , but he managed to catch himself at the last second. No doubt Joe would take the dig as a genuine offer, and then they’d be worse off than before. It had been hard enough getting him here in the first place.

“You just need to be patient,” Nicky counseled instead, causing Joe to turn away with a scoff.

“Patient, yes, of course. Your favorite word.”

Nicky chewed on his tongue, refusing to rise to the bait. The last thing they needed was to get into a fight in the waiting room of their new therapist’s office. Nicky stared at the office door, willing it to open, as Joe took up his pacing again. His footfalls were purposefully louder now—there wasn’t a knife Joe didn’t love to twist once he had a good grip on it—and Nicky counted his breaths, trying to ignore the pressure building in his head.

And then, just as he felt like he was about to scream, the door opened, and out stepped a man. He looked much like the photo they’d seen online: white, with light brown hair slicked back from his forehead and a good bit of stubble shading his face. He seemed older in person, though, and more tired than the photographs had let on. Or perhaps he, like the two of them, was just having a bad day.

“Gentlemen.” His lips lifted only enough to be polite. “I am Sébastien le Livre. Apologies for keeping you waiting; I had to take a call from my son.” He stepped to the side, gesturing to the office within. “Please come in. Take a seat.”

Joe did as bid, and after a moment of wondering what in the world he was getting them into, Nicky followed.

The office was much brighter than the dim waiting room had led them to expect. The far wall was all windows, and on this spring morning, the sun shone in warmly without being too hot. The walls were painted a lovely, soft teal that went nicely with the dark wood of the floor, desk, and bookcases. There were three armchairs, two facing the widow and one with its back to the view. Nicky felt his mouth twitch in brief appreciation. He was glad he wouldn’t be forced to stare at a blank wall whenever he wanted to avoid eye contact.

Joe had already taken his seat, on the left, so Nicky took the one beside him, wondering how many other couples had sat there before them. How many of them were still married? And of those that were, how many of them were still miserable anyway?

“Nicky and Joe,” le Livre called as he made his way past them to his own armchair. “Who is who?”

“He’s Nicky, I’m Joe.”

Le Livre nodded his thanks, either oblivious or impervious to the blatant suspicion in Joe’s appraising eyes. “Wonderful.” He picked up a pad of paper and a pen as he settled in his seat. “Since we lost some time earlier, I won’t bother boring you with a recitation of my credentials. If you’re here, I assume you’ve already spent far too much time researching me on your own. So, let’s begin with you.” He glanced between them. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

Nicky blinked, caught off guard by the question. “We filled out all the forms online,” he answered hesitantly. He licked his lips nervously, determined not to look at Joe. He didn’t want to see the glee on his face. “Did… Did you not read them?”

“Oh, I read them.” Le Livre lifted a sheaf of papers from the end table beside his chair and set them back down. “But I prefer to hear it straight from the mouth. After all, if you can’t talk about your issues aloud, then what is the point of you being here?”

“I’d argue there’s no point in us being here in the first place,” Joe muttered under his breath.

“Joe,” Nicky admonished. “Please.”

But le Livre merely smiled. He set his pen and paper aside and reclined in his chair, eyeing Joe carefully.

“It’s common in couples’ therapy for there to be a willing and an unwilling half. I imagine you both bargained your way to a seat in my office?” He waited for an answer, but when neither spoke up, he continued, “Tell me, Joe. Why do you think you don’t need to be here?”

Joe scoffed, shaking his head as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He pointedly kept his gaze trained to the corner of the room, but as the silence dragged on, he glanced back to le Livre.

“Is this your gambit?” he demanded. “You think if you sit there in silence, you’ll get me to talk?”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Nicky noted dryly.

Joe ignored him. “What do you expect to gain out of this?” he pressed, keeping his eyes trained on le Livre. “You think your silence will make me open up to you? That requires trust, and I do not trust you. You made us wait a quarter of an hour and gave us a bullshit excuse. Odd that a therapist would not understand the importance of making a good first impression with new clients.”

Something twitched in le Livre’s face, but it was gone in an instant.

“Is there anything else?” he asked evenly. When Joe said nothing, le Livre shifted his attentions. "Nicky, how about you? Do you want to tell me why you—”

“You’re straight, right?” Joe interrupted suddenly.

“Joe,” Nicky hissed.

“You are, aren’t you?” Joe demanded, not taking his eyes off le Livre.

“Will you leave the man alone?” Nicky snapped. “He came highly recommended and he has a job to do. Will you just cooperate, like you promised you would?”

“I am cooperating, but I have a few questions first.” While Nicky groaned in exasperation, Joe tipped his chin at the framed photographs hanging above the desk in the corner. All of them were family portraits, featuring le Livre with a blonde woman at his side, and an ever-growing group of boys crowding around them, slowly morphing into men. “That’s your wife, right? Your family? I do not think I am stepping out of bounds by asking you what insight you, as a straight man, can offer us and our relationship.”

“Please ignore him,” Nicky sighed, massaging his left temple. “He’s been in a petty mood for months now. He came in here ready for a fight, and for some reason you are the new target. For that, I apologize. He usually isn’t this rude to people he isn’t married to.”

“And I would say he doesn’t usually talk about me like I’m not here,” Joe shot back, “but he always does that. And don’t think our bickering excuses you from answering the question.”

Le Livre was silent for a moment, lips pursed as he seemed to consider his options. Then he bent forward, clasping his hands together. “Look, Joe. Can we make a deal here? You give me one hour—”

“Probably only forty minutes left by now. No fault of my own.”

Le Livre allowed this with a gracious nod. “Yes, well. As I said, I apologize for the delay. We can make it up another time if you so wish. For now, I will answer your question, if you will agree to participate openly and honestly for the time we have remaining.”

Joe said nothing, but after so many years together, Nicky could sense the silent surrender without having to look over and see it.

“I will take that as a yes.” Le Livre sat back in his chair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’d like to start by saying that I usually make a point of _not_ discussing my personal life during sessions, as it only ever proves to be an unnecessary distraction. But if this will put your mind at ease and help us to communicate going forward, so be it. Yes, that is my wife in those photographs, and my sons. The one in the middle was taken five years ago. Six months later, we were holding her funeral.”

Nicky blinked at the revelation, caught off guard. He had noticed the photos too—of course he had; a few of them had been online too—but he had not been bothered by them. It made no matter to him how the man identified, just that he was the best in the field. Now it was hard to wrench his eyes away from the shrine. He couldn't help but wonder how le Livre could work, day in and day out, surrounded by such overt reminders. It made him wonder what the man's home looked like.

“My bisexuality was not a secret from my wife,” le Livre continued. “She knew I’d dated men before I met her, and it was not a problem for her. My sons and I… Well, we never quite got around to discussing that detail while she was alive. And after she passed, I… I had a very difficult time finding any meaning in life.”

For the first time, le Livre looked down, avoiding their gazes as he folded his hands together. The fingers of his right hand seemed to gravitate towards his left ring finger, and he twisted the skin there in absence of a wedding band.

“Eventually, I managed to start looking forward again. Dating again. My sons wanted me to be happy, but I know it was hard for them, to see me moving on. Strange for them. And then for them to discover there were men involved, well…” He lifted his head, forcing a wan smile. “I suppose I cannot blame them for the conclusions they came to. Jean-Pierre, my youngest, is the only one who let me explain. It’s been about a year now, and yet he is still the only one who will speak to me. So when he calls, I drop everything. As I said, I apologize for the delay earlier. Usually he knows not to call during work hours.”

There was a pause, but neither Nicky nor Joe found any way to fill it.

“So,” le Livre cleared his throat, “while I cannot emphasize completely with what you two in particular may have experienced, I am not ignorant of the struggles.” His eyes moved between them. “Not that I think one’s sexuality should be a qualifying factor either way in their ability to treat clients.”

“Agreed,” Nicky replied quickly.

Le Livre looked at Joe. “If you wanted a gay therapist you could’ve easily found one. But you came to me instead.”

“Nicky chose you.”

Le Livre smiled at the dismissal. “I’ve known you for all of five minutes, Joe, and yet I cannot imagine you agreeing to anything blindly, let alone something as intimate as therapy. You didn’t fight coming to me because you figured the moment things got uncomfortable, you could shift focus by attacking my qualifications, be they professional or otherwise. Do I have that right?”

Nicky had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t grin.

“So,” le Livre began again, clasping his hands together as he straightened in his chair. “Now that we have that out of the way, I will ask again: what are you here for? Because whether or not you believe it, I would like to help in any way I can.”

“There’s nothing to help with,” Joe answered. “Couples have issues, fights. It’s normal, especially after five years. Nobody expects the honeymoon phase to last forever.” He paused, and then tilted his head to the side, amending, “Except him, of course.”

“That isn’t true,” Nicky argued. “I have no expectation—”

“You have _every_ expectation!” Joe cut off with an incredulous laugh. “Are you kidding me? You expect _everything_ from me. If I don’t shower you with compliments and attention you automatically assume I am getting ready to serve you papers.”

“Charming,” Nicky muttered. “We haven’t been here ten minutes and somehow you have already managed to mention divorce.”

“Oh, please,” Joe rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. It was an example!”

“Divorce as an _example_. Oh, how surprising it is that we find ourselves in therapy. Who could have predicted this turn of events?”

“We find ourselves here,” Joe bit out, “because _I_ was given an ultimatum.” 

“An ultimatum?” le Livre interjected before the argument could continue without him. “And what was the ultimatum?”

Two pairs of eyes rose to stare at him, silent in their judgment.

“What do you think?” Joe replied flatly.

Le Livre shifted slightly in his seat, studying them each in turn. While Joe made a point to stare directly at him, Nicky avoided his gaze, choosing instead to look out the window or at the floor. He waited so long for eye contact that Joe eventually got to his feet and started pacing.

“You see?” he called. “It is impossible, trying to carry on a conversation with him. He just shuts down if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Like a robot. And yet he acts as if _I_ am the distant one.”

“I am not the one who is jumping on a plane every month,” Nicky muttered.

“Well, I’m sorry I have a _job_.”

In a split-second, Nicky was on his feet, sputtering what le Livre could only guess were Italian curses. Joe returned them in kind, his voice rising to a shout, and though le Livre tried, he couldn’t get a single word in edgewise as they traded insults. He watched the two of them as they fought, trying to gauge when it would be best to step in and whether he’d have to do it literally. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to physically separate clients during a session.

“All right!” le Livre yelled, finally getting to his feet and moving in between them when he realized the argument wouldn’t be cooling on its own. “Calm down, both of you. Sit.”

Joe looked mutinous, and Nicky’s previously placid face was something close to murderous, but eventually they both did as bid. They twisted as much in their chairs as possible to put their backs to each other while still facing forward. Le Livre might’ve laughed at the theatrics if he weren’t responsible for salvaging the ruined relationship before him.

“In the future,” he began, “I’d appreciate it if we could keep all communication to English during these sessions. Unless either of you happens to be fluent in French…?” Neither looked up from their meticulous study of the carpet. Le Livre didn’t bother glancing at the papers to his right. Intake forms hardly mattered to begin with, but they mattered even less when such a show was put on right before him. He pushed the agenda out of his mind and forged a new path.

“Do you two often fight like this?”

“Define often,” Joe replied.

“Monthly? Weekly?”

When neither spoke, he tried a different route.

“Does it ever go beyond words?”

“Do you mean, am I ever so pissed at him I can’t speak?” Joe snorted. “Sure, all the time. Last week, when we—”

“He is not asking about that,” Nicky interrupted. His eyes were trained on le Livre, suddenly cold and hard. It did not take much imagination to picture that quiet fury transformed into something dangerous. “He is not wondering if we render each other speechless. He wants to know if we resort to hitting each other once we run out of words.”

Joe looked between the two of them, utterly bewildered. It was a few seconds before he managed to speak.

“You’re crazy,” was all he could think to say.

“You both seem to have tempers. The fight I just witnessed, for instance. It seems like that type of thing happens often—one little comment was all it took, and then the explosion. I would like to know if things ever escalate beyond what I just saw.”

“You’ve known us for less than an hour!” Joe protested. “So we argue! So we get in each other’s faces! That doesn’t mean we’re capable of committing spousal abuse! Are you insane?”

“Everyone is capable of it,” le Livre pointed out calmly.

“Just because we are _unhappy_ ,” Joe stressed, “does not mean we take it out on each other physically.” He gestured around the room. “Look, I’m sure you see plenty of shit in here, but don’t bring that down on us. There is nothing special here, okay? No dark drama. No secret abuse. No one in need of saving. There are just two people who have become…” He paused, searching for the words, but found none.

“Tired,” Nicky finished for him. Le Livre glanced over at him while Joe sank back in his chair. No longer was there a cold fury in Nicky's eyes; now, only a grim weariness remained. “We are tired of each other.”

“And yet you’re both here,” le Livre pointed out. He nodded at Nicky. “And at your insistence. So clearly you’re not that tired.”

Nicky considered the statement for a moment, turning it around in his head as the other two waited.

“Contrary to what my husband alluded to earlier,” Nicky said finally, “I am not without a work ethic. I am tired, yes. And unhappy. And angry. And he is too, I know. I have heard him say it enough times. And we are here because…” He shrugged, heaving a sigh. “Well, why is anyone here? Because they can’t figure it out on their own. But they’re still willing to try.”

Le Livre accepted this with a nod, and then snuck a glance at his watch. Usually he liked to cover more ground in an introductory session, but their arguments had taken up more time than he’d expected, derailing his plans.

“One more topic, before we end for today.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe sit up a little straighter, like a kid who’d just been told recess was seconds away. Something told le Livre he wouldn’t enjoy the final test.

“We’ve gone over a few of the sticking points: emotional unavailability, communication problems, general dissatisfaction… You both mentioned on the forms that things have been more difficult since Nicky lost his job. And obviously I have witnessed firsthand that you both have some anger issues to work through. But there is something else that neither of you have mentioned, which I’d like to touch on before we go.” 

“Yes…?” Nicky wondered aloud.

Le Livre lifted the forms from the table beside him, rifling through them briefly. “You both filled these out quite meticulously, though there is one section both of you left blank, and neither of you has brought up the subject during this session. So I can’t help but think you’re purposefully avoiding it, and I’d like to know why.”

“I… am not following,” Nicky said slowly. “Is this a guessing game?”

“Apparently, yes.”

Le Livre glanced between them, giving them each one final chance. But still, they stared back at him blankly. He figured the bluntest approach would be best.

“When’s the last time you two had sex?”

“Excuse me?” Joe demanded sharply.

Out of the corner of his eye, le Livre caught a glimpse of Nicky starting in his seat. He filed away each reaction, making mental notes as he continued.

“You heard the question. I asked what your sex life is like. Sex is an important part of any marriage. Because you two are clearly avoiding the topic, I figured we should confront it head on, get it out of the way.”

“Our sex life is fine,” Joe snapped.

“‘Fine,’” le Livre repeated.

“What?”

“‘Fine’ is not usually a word people use to describe a healthy sex life.”

“What, do you want all the graphic details?”

“No, but I would appreciate the truth.”

“What in the world does this have to do with anything?” Nicky wondered aloud, the words rushing from between his lips in a manner le Livre could only describe as panicked. “I do not see how this is relevant. We are here to talk about our inability to communicate properly, not—”

“Sex is a form of communication,” le Livre pointed out mildly.

“What Nicky means,” Joe stressed, speaking over le Livre, “is that we have plenty of _other_ , more important issues to focus on.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Nicky agreed eagerly, emphasizing with a pointed finger. “He is right. Take the fighting—you were concerned about that, yes? Well, we fight all the time. I think it would be a better use of our time to discuss that.”

“Okay.” Le Livre folded one leg over the other, setting their file aside. “Tell me about the fighting, then.”

“What do you want to know about it?”

“Does it ever lead to sex?”

The enthusiasm drained from his face, Nicky sighed in defeat, falling back against his chair. He muttered something under his breath in Italian that le Livre didn’t quite catch, but he didn’t need a translator to get the gist.

“So let me get this straight,” Joe began, scratching the side of his head. “First, you’re worried about our fighting because you think we’re abusing each other. Now, you think we get off on it. So which is it? And don't say 'both.'”

“Neither,” Nicky answered before le Livre could speak. The polite mask had fallen from his face once more, and le Livre couldn't help but wonder if this was what he looked like when they were at home. “I am beginning to think he just has an unhealthy fascination with our sex life, and would prefer if it were twisted. It is unfortunate,” Nicky added coolly as he rose to his feet, “that you came recommended. Otherwise we would not have had to waste our time.”

“Speaking of wasted time,” Joe added, rising as well, “you better not charge us for those fifteen minutes.”

They turned away without another word, heading for the exit, and le Livre watched their retreating backs with some amusement. It wasn’t until they reached the door that he spoke. 

“This is very interesting to me,” he observed, raising his voice just loud enough so that he knew they could hear.

It worked: they both faltered in their steps, as he predicted, but refused to turn around.

Joe buckled first. “What?”

“The only time you two have listened to each other, taken into account what the other has said, and worked together as a partnership, is when you were trying to avoid talking to me about your sex life.” Le Livre smiled at their tensed backs, getting to his feet as well. “All arguments and petty grievances aside, clearly you two make a good team, when you share a common goal. It makes me wonder how different your marriage could be if you saw opportunities for collaboration instead of confrontation.”

Le Livre stepped past them and held the door open.

“It was lovely meeting you both. I hope you know that your problems are not insurmountable, though they may seem so now. All it will take is work—and open, honest communication about every aspect of your relationship, even the parts you’re embarrassed by. If you would prefer to find another therapist, of course you are welcome to. But if you would like to meet again, I will keep you in my calendar for the same time next week until I hear otherwise.”

With that, he ushered them out, smiling as he closed the door in their faces.

Nicky and Joe stood on the other side, staring at each other in disbelief.

“What the fuck?”


	2. Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the quickest I’ve ever updated a story. This chapter just wrote itself. I swear I only meant to give Booker a _little_ background for this AU, but then I became quite attached…

Sébastien could hear jazz music emanating softly from the house as he climbed out of his car and that’s how he knew James was home. He had been expecting him—it was Friday, after all—but still, the realization made him smile. He had learned over the years never to take anything, especially not the smallest, most everyday happinesses, for granted.

The music got louder as he made his way up the front walk, and though he focused, he couldn’t name the tune. He did recognize it, though that fact was more a testament to how liberally James availed himself of Sébastien’s home sound system than anything else. He pulled open the screen door, letting it slam loudly behind him in lieu of announcing his arrival. He didn’t bother shutting the main door or locking it. It was an undeniably safe neighborhood, despite the endless suburban fear-mongering, and besides, they were expecting a guest.

Sébastien took his time hanging up his jacket and sorting the files from his work bag. Most weekdays, he stayed late to finish up, but on Fridays he always left on time and brought the day’s session notes home with him. James liked to look over his patient files in the mornings over coffee, and Sébastien had taken to reviewing his own session notes alongside him. Sometimes, during those mornings together, he almost managed to forget how empty the house felt during the week with just him in it.

James, typically, already had a bottle of wine open by the time Sébastien stepped into the kitchen. He was sitting at the marble island, dressed in jeans and navy button-down that looked far too good on him for a casual Friday night in.

“Hi there.” James raised his glass in salute, a smile spreading across his face.

Sébastien couldn’t help but grin back as he came closer. “Hi.”

“You look happy.”

“Always happy when you’re here.” A few months ago, he would’ve cringed at such obvious fawning, but it came naturally now, and without embarrassment. Everything came naturally with James, in a way Sébastien hadn’t believed could be possible after Joanna. He dipped his head down for a kiss hello, licking his lips as he pulled back. “What’s that, a Zinfandel?”

“Look, he’s learning.” James smiled broadly. “I’ll make a connoisseur out of you yet.”

“Doubt it,” Sébastien replied, stepping away.

“Whoever heard of a Frenchman who doesn’t like wine?” James called after him as he headed for the bar in the other room.

“Plenty of people,” he replied, pulling a glass from the shelf and filling it with a few fingers’ worth of bourbon. He stood there and took the first swallow, savoring the way it burned through his mouth and down his throat. Something else to be thankful for: being able to drink normally again. Just a drink here and there, and only because he wanted it, not because he needed it.

When he came back into the kitchen, James was just where he left him, looking beautiful and entirely at ease. Sébastien took another sip of bourbon, and leveled and accusing finger at him.

“You’re entirely useless to me, you know that?”

“Useless?” He had the nerve to look affronted. “How am I useless? I opened the wine!”

“You did that for yourself. And I left _instructions_.” Sébastien waved around the printed pages he’d placed, in full view, on the end of the island. “I could’ve used your help here.”

“Oh, please. I was never going to do any of that. You know I prefer to watch you work.”

Sébastien rolled his eyes. “You prefer to eat free, is what you mean.” He sighed, setting his glass down as he scanned the recipe once more. “You could’ve at least started on the vegetables, you know,” he muttered, turning away when he heard James snicker so he wouldn’t be caught smiling back and risk undercutting his own indignation. He rummaged first in the fridge, and then the pantry, pulling out ingredient after ingredient until he had a virtual cornucopia on the counter.

James eyed him over a mound of potatoes. “You know you’re only cooking for three, right?”

Sébastien nodded absently, busy preheating the oven. “Jean-Pierre has a big appetite.”

“I don’t think his appetite is _this_ big.”

“Then he’ll take leftovers with him. That dining hall food is shit anyway.”

“Don’t think he’ll be able to fit all the leftovers we’re going to have in a mini-fridge.”

Sébastien waved him away, grabbing a block of parmesan from the fridge and tossing it so quickly at James that he had no choice but to catch it. “Do me a favor and grate that, will you?”

James sighed, getting to his feet to find the grater. He returned to his seat, starting on the cheese only after he’d finished his glass of wine. He spent nearly as much time eating it as he did grating it and eventually Sébastien had to yank the shavings away from him. James just smiled and poured himself another glass, delighting in the delicious smells wafting around him.

“So. How was your day?”

“Eh.” Sébastien shrugged, crouching down to slide the chicken into the oven. “It was work.”

“Come on,” James cajoled. “I haven’t seen you in a week and your son will be here in a couple hours. Try to flex that socializing muscle before he arrives. Tell me how your day was.”

“It was fine. Had the usuals in the morning. Met a few new clients in the afternoon.”

“Oh? And what’s their over-under, do you reckon? A year? Six months?”

Sébastien shook his head, raising a warning finger. “Don’t. You know better.”

James grinned, holding up his hands in surrender. “Teasing, only teasing.”

For the next hour or so, while Sébastien moved around the kitchen chopping and roasting and frying things, James sat and watched and provided the entertainment. He told stories from his week at work, skating over the tragic moments and emphasizing the small frustrations and enjoyments. There would be time later to talk about serious things, but for now, he provided what he knew Sébastien needed: a distraction from his work, and his family, and his own mind.

It was just after eight-thirty when Sébastien’s phone vibrated on the counter with a message from his son. His hands busy, he asked James to read it.

“Says he’ll be here in ten,” James reported back.

“Excellent.” Sébastien checked the oven one last time, making sure it was set to warming, before wiping his hands with a dish towel. He caught James’ eye and tilted his head towards the dining room. “You want to help me set the table, or are you content to just sit there and—”

“And look pretty?”

Sébastien pointed at the drawer on the other side of the room. “Get the silverware, would you? I’ll get the plates.”

They set the table quickly, in silence, neither mentioning all of the spots left empty. It was a large table and, strictly speaking, they could have a more comfortable dinner if they simply ate at the island, as Sébastien and James did whenever they were alone together. But things were different with Jean-Pierre; James had learned that lesson long ago. Consciously or unconsciously, Sébastien was always trying to make things as close to home as possible for him, even though they all knew such a home was beyond recreating.

At least Jean-Pierre was a good sport about it.

“What do you think?” Sébastien asked, surveying the table once it had been loaded with enough food for triple the amount of guests it would serve. He reached out to brush a bit of lint from the edge of the tablecloth. “Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” James assured him. When Sébastien glanced nervously his way, he smiled and took his hand, squeezing it once. But when he tried to pull away, Sébastien only moved with him, leaning over for a kiss.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I know I don’t say that enough, but—”

“You say it plenty.”

“Well. Hope you don’t mind hearing it again, then.”

James smiled, touching his cheek. “I’d never mind that.”

They kissed again, longer this time, and pressed close together, until eventually James had to duck his head and pull away. “JP will be here soon—”

Sébastien snorted. “Do _not_ call him JP. You sound like an American. The boy’s not a bank.”

“I _am_ an American, as you so often like to forget.”

“Eh,” Sébastien shook his head. “You’re not, really. Not with that posh accent of yours.”

“I can’t stand soccer. I think even just using that word makes me American enough in your eyes, right?”

Sébastien merely smiled. “Give it time. I’ll make a football connoisseur out of you yet.”

“Sure, sure.” James slipped his hands onto his pockets. "Just as soon as you go to a Pats game with me and watch some _real_ football.”

Sébastien affected a puzzled frown. “Aren’t they cheaters or something?”

James opened his mouth to argue, but Sébastien was already walking away, having heard the front door open and his son calling his name. “Raincheck on that rant, hm?”

James let him go, hanging back to allow father and son have some time to themselves. He listened to their back-and-forth in French and tried not to think, as he always did at moments like this, that he was intruding on what little family time Sébastien still had left these days. He’d voiced the concern more than once—always to be shot down—but still he worried over it. He wondered, too, what Jean-Pierre thought of all this, and what he said about these evenings to his friends. Driving across state lines once a month to have dinner with his widower father and said father’s boyfriend? It was too absurd to mention at school, probably. Too embarrassing.

Just then, Jean-Pierre’s shaggy head appeared around the doorframe. The nineteen-year-old raised his hand, offering a two-fingered salute as he caught sight of James. “Hiya, doc.”

“Hi, Jean-Pierre. Hope you came hungry. Your dad went overboard with the food, as usual.”

“Awesome.”

James smiled at the teenager. Somehow his wavy blonde hair seemed to have gotten even longer in the month since James has last seen him. He looked like he belonged on the West Coast with a surfboard and not squirreled away at University of Maryland tinkering on computers all day.

 _He’s nothing like me_ , Sébastien always said, adding proudly, _He’s all Joanna, through and through._ But James didn’t see it like that. The two were too similar in their solitary pursuits, their mannerisms, their ease with long silences. Maybe it was a result of Jean-Pierre being the only one still at home when his mother passed. Growing into adulthood with a father half-gone already, it was somehow easiest for him to adjust to this new version of his father. Whatever it was that made Jean-Pierre Jean-Pierre, James loved him for it. He didn’t think Sébastien would have survived this long, cut off from his family. Jean-Pierre was a bridge and a blessing, all on his own.

They spent the majority of the dinner talking about Jean-Pierre—talking about his life at college, his classes, sports, and his friends. He mentioned one female friend by name three different times, and each time, James glanced at Sébastien, but he didn’t return the knowing look, so James kept the observation to himself. It wasn’t his place to tease. Though he’d been spending every weekend here for the better part of a year, this was a family home and he wasn’t family. So instead, when there was a lag in conversation midway through the meal, James turned the conversation to Sébastien.

“Your dad had a couple new clients this week.”

“Oh yeah?” Jean-Pierre glanced at his father, speaking around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Any good drama?”

He shrugged. “Just the usual unhappinesses—lack of communication, breakdown of trust, one things leads to another…” He paused, taking a measured sip of his bourbon. “They did nearly have a fistfight in my office today, though.”

“ _What_?” James looked up in alarm. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“Slipped my mind,” Sébastien shrugged, though James knew it hadn’t. Sébastien always saved his best stories for when Jean-Pierre was coming by. And by the look on Jean-Pierre’s face, James couldn’t blame him.

“A fistfight? Seriously?” he asked eagerly. “What happened? Was there blood? Did you have to call security?”

“Luckily it didn’t get quite that far,” Sébastien replied.

“So what? You gonna make them stand in separate corners of the room next session as punishment?”

Sébastien laughed. “That’s a good idea, actually. Might steal it.”

Jean-Pierre grinned, and rattled off a few others, each more ridiculous than the last, just to watch his father’s reactions.

It wasn’t until they’d finished eating, and were loitering over empty plates, that Jean-Pierre finally said the words that had been weighing on him all evening.

“I saw François over Easter.”

Sébastien’s knife slipped from where he’d been absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers, and it clattered loudly against his plate. Usually such a sound made James flinch, but he was too intent on Jean-Pierre to pay attention to anything else. He knew the moment the boy spoke that none of them would like what was going to come out of his mouth next. Jean-Pierre kept his head down, staring into his empty plate as if he hoped it might swallow him whole.

“You saw François?” Sébastien managed finally, breaking the silence. “Why did—um, how was that? How—How is he?”

“He’s good. He, um…” Jean-Pierre closed his eyes, lips moving silently as if trying to psych himself up. “Dad, I thought you should know, in case none of the others told you. Simone’s pregnant.”

No one moved.

Out of the corner of his eye, James strained to read Sébastien’s face, but it was impossible from such an angle. All he could see was the way his jaw had tightened, but James couldn’t tell whether he was trying not to cry or not to scream. Maybe it was both.

When he finally spoke, it was with none of his usual composure.

“She… She is? When… I mean, do you know how far—”

“I dunno for sure,” Jean-Pierre rushed to answer, trying to take some of the burden off. “She said something about the second trimester.” When his father flinched, Jean-Pierre dropped his eyes to the table. “I would’ve told you earlier, but… I thought you’d probably want to hear in person."

Sébastien nodded once, jerkily.

“Well…” He swallowed hard, but was unable to dispel the sudden blockage in his throat. He wanted so desperately to reach for his glass and drown himself in bourbon but he didn’t trust himself not to shatter it right now. “That’s, um… That’s wonderful news.”

“Dad…”

Jean-Pierre was leaning forward in his seat, reaching out, but already Sébastien was on his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in his rush to get up.

“Just a second,” he forced out as he fled the table, “I think I left the stove on.”

Jean-Pierre sighed and fell back against his chair. James reached for his wine. For a few minutes they sat there in silence, looking at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“I think he would prefer you,” Jean-Pierre said finally.

“Hm.” James finished the last of his wine before pushing back his chair. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

James looked in the kitchen first, not because he expected Sébastien to be there, but just to give them both time. The room was empty and the stove, predictably, was off. James thought about wandering through the house a bit more, but knew it was pointless to put off the inevitable. He heaved in a breath, let it go, and then headed for the back of the house.

Sébastien was sitting on the bottom step, hunched over something James couldn’t see as he opened the door to the backyard. For a second he hesitated, thinking Sébastien might be calling his eldest son, but then he saw a cloud of smoke and suddenly he was pushing the door open without another thought.

“You said you quit,” James said sharply, unable, even at a time like this, to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“I did,” Sébastien replied. He dropped the cigarette and squashed it beneath this boot. A smile forced its way onto his face as he watched James make his way over. “Didn’t know which of you to expect,” he said hoarsely.

James hesitated, remembering all at once why he was out here. “I can get Jean-Pierre if you—”

“No,” Sébastien waved him over. “Stay. Please.”

So James sat, taking a spot on the stair next to him.

“This is truly new territory for him. I know he isn’t happy with me, but I never thought I’d be excluded from the birth of my first grandchild.”

“The kid hasn’t been born yet, Seb. You don’t know that they’re excluding you.”

“Oh?” Sébastien scoffed. “Aren’t they? François wouldn’t even say it to my face; he made his baby brother deliver the news! Jean-Pierre is _nineteen_ ; he should not have to deal with shit like this. I swear to God, if Joanna were alive…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Well. If that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation then, would we?”

“Look,” James said quietly, “if it would make things easier with your family, I could—”

“What?” Sébastien cut in. “Leave me? How the hell does that fix anything, James? Then I’ll just be worse off than before.”

“You’d have them,” James pointed out quietly.

“It shouldn’t be a _choice_ between you and them.”

“I know.” When he felt Sébastien start to shake beside him, James reached out an arm and hugged him close. “I know it shouldn’t.” He pressed a kiss to his head. “And I’m really sorry."

"The worst part is…" Sebastien sucked in a shuddering breath, wiping his face roughly with one hand. “The worst part is, I never saw any of this coming. I never, in a thousand years, would have suspected any of them of being capable of this. I thought—” His voice broke, and he had to duck his head down before continuing. “I really thought I raised better sons than this. I know I’m not perfect, I _know_ , but I thought I at least did right by them.”

“You _did_ ,” Jame insisted. “Jean-Pierre is a _good_ kid. A fantastic kid. And I’m sure the others—”

“You don’t _know_ the others,” Sébastien cut him off. He wiped his knuckles beneath his nose roughly. “And neither, apparently, do I.”

James thought of arguing further, but he knew there was no point. Not tonight. So instead he just rested his head against Sébastien’s shoulder, and held him tight. They sat there until he was ready to get up again.

When they made their way back inside, they found Jean-Pierre sitting on the kitchen island, eating ice cream out of the carton.

Sébastien sighed, pushing his hair back from his head. “What is this now? What are you doing?”

“What? You guys were taking forever out there. I wanted dessert.”

“You could use a _bowl_ , for starters.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Hey!” he exclaimed when his father snatched the pint out of his hands. “I was eating that!”

“Well, it’s not yours, is it?” Sébastien replied, scooping a spoonful into his mouth before returning the ice scream to the freezer and the spoon to the sink.

Jean-Pierre hopped down from the counter with a defeated sigh. “Guess I should get back anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder at James. “Nice to see you, doc.”

“You too, JP.”

Things weren’t fixed, not even close, but James knew they were on the way back to normal from the way Sébastien rolled his eyes at the nickname. James just smiled, and busied himself with cleaning up the table as the other two headed for the front hall.

“Sorry,” Jean-Pierre said as they stood at the door. “I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Sébastien assured him. “No matter how I heard, it was going to be hard. And I should be the one apologizing for walking out—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Jean-Pierre interrupted. “And don’t try your nice shrink tricks on me. I ruined dinner. I know I did, and I’m sorry. It’s just…” Jean-Pierre looked at his feet, sighing. “Théo refused to even discuss telling you. He kept saying it was François’ call. And I asked Sasha to come with me, but he’s being such a baby. He wouldn’t man up about it. And I know these dinners are important for you,” he rushed to say, “but I didn’t want you to hear from somebody else between now and the next one and be blindsided. I didn’t want that to happen, Dad, it wouldn’t be fair—”

“Viens ici.” Sébastien reached out, hugging his son close. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s fine.”

“They’ll come around, Dad.” Jean-Pierre’s arms were strong and tight around his father’s back. “I know they will. They just—just need a little more time.”

Sébastien shut his eyes and pressed a kiss his son’s temple, unable to muster a response.

"I love you,” Jean-Pierre told him. “And I know they do too. They’re just—being stupid.”

“Oh, mon amour.” Sébastien smiled sadly as he pulled away, struggling to keep the tears in check. He reached up a hair, ruffling his son’s hair half in distraction and half out of affection. “What a sweet boy you are,” he whispered.

Jean-Pierre ducked his head away, but when he surfaced again, he was smiling. “Same time next month, yeah?”

Sébastien nodded, and then stood at the doorway and watched until Jean-Pierre drove out of sight, and for a while longer after that too.

When he returned to the kitchen, the dishwasher was already running and everything was clean. James was sitting at the island, checking his phone, but he looked up when Sébastien walked in.

“Want to talk?” he offered, but Sébastien just shook his head.

“Maybe tomorrow. For now, I’d rather just sleep.”

They made their way upstairs silently, undressing and climbing into bed without a word. For a while, they each lay there, alternatively staring at the ceiling or the backs of their eyelids. Usually able to sleep anywhere, and at any time, Sébastien couldn’t seem to get comfortable. For the better part of an hour, he tossed and turned and muttered, annoyed with himself, until James reached out.

“Hey. You want me to take your mind off things?”

He got a small smile for that, though it was hard to see in the dark. “Another time,” Sébastien murmured. Something changed in his face after he spoke, and James clocked it, shifting more fully to face him.

“What is it?”

"Nothing, just… What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sex?”

James never flinched at these sorts of questions. He had been quite an unflappable man to begin with, when they met, and dating a therapist had shorn him of any remaining insecurities when it came to topics of intimacy. They were what Sébastien spent his working days immersed in, and when questions like this came up, James knew he was just gathering anecdotal evidence.

“You know how long.” James bent forward to kiss the back of his hand. “You?"

Sébastien smiled sadly. “You know how long too.”

“And before that? The second longest?”

Sébastien paused, thinking. “After Théo was born. Joanna had bad postpartum.”

“Could that be your clients’ issue?”

Sébastien smiled at the question; James always knew where his mind was even when he didn’t bother to say.

“No,” he answered. “They’re childless.”

“Trying?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Maybe they just hate each other,” James offered. “These are the two that got in that fight, right? Maybe they just can’t stand to look at each other, let alone fuck. Not everybody’s into hate sex, you know.”

Sébastien smirked, catching his eye. “Believe it or not, but I did ask about that, actually.”

“Jesus!” James laughed out loud. “Bet that went over well.”

“Wasn’t pretty.”

“Well…” James paused to yawn. “Whatever it is, I know you’ll sort it out for them,” he assured tiredly. “You always do.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.” Sébastien heaved in a breath, turning back to the ceiling. “I can hardly sort out anything for myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, we’ll return to Nicky & Joe soon enough, although I hope you enjoyed this subplot. :) I just couldn’t resist once I was down the Booker rabbit hole. Leave me your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave your thoughts below. I might write a couple more vignettes for this AU, if anyone's interested. :)


End file.
